


Ash Buried Under Snow

by Kitty_KatAllie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actual wolf!Derek, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Kinda, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Soulmates, Soulmates - Names, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent, mentions of dead major/minor characters before the story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_KatAllie/pseuds/Kitty_KatAllie
Summary: Stiles Stilinski, aged 19, has been raised by the Argent family since his twelfth year. While he may not be the worst Hunter to ever Hunt, he has a few secrets (and quirks) that keep him from truly fitting into the life of his adoptive family. He's great at faking till he makes it, that is until the day a new Hunt is named just in time for Christmas... and it's the same name as the one written onto his body. And soul.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Read notes at the end for trigger warnings that clarify the character deaths.

He was born knowing he wasn’t alone.

Of course, as a kid, he didn’t really get that. For him, it started as a bunch of squiggles he never seemed to stop touching. Tracing the inky black marks gave him the same sense of calm and peace, of _comfort_ , that his parents’ arms did. When he learned to read, the meaningless scribbles became a name. A simple dime-a-dozen _name_. His mother and father explained _then_ what it meant and showed him their own names on the other.

_Claudia_ in his mother’s untidy, almost illegible scrawl across his father’s collarbone.

_John_ in solid, bold lines, careful and steady, stamped into the bend of his mother’s elbow.

‘ _Somewhere out there is the one who will make you happier than anyone else ever could, kochanie_.’

‘ _Like your mother is for me._ ’

.

“There’s been sightings a few hours north of the area. Most likely heading into the Preserve,” Argent narrated in his hoarse, blunt way, seasoned by years of violence and hard, physical labor.

Stiles snorted aloud at Argent’s report, leaning on the large metal table in the middle of the dark room- the only light the bare and blazing florescent bulb above their heads. The map they all stared at was of Northern California and a geographical and topical one, the town and cities just words on a page without the boundaries drawn in. The boundaries people such as them cared about wouldn’t be on a map bought in a store like this one. The name of the biggest town in the county had Stiles swallowing painfully, but he kept his expression, and its customary smirk, derisive and dismissive.

“Yes, Stiles?” Argent just _barely_ didn’t sigh. _Barely_. Daily task not yet accomplished then.

Stiles swept a hand over the large portion of Beacon County that was mostly the Preserve. “This is a massive amount of area to cover. And you’re going with, 'werewolf is in there somewhere, let’s get going’. It could take _weeks_. If the ‘wolf doesn’t wise up and get his ass outta there before we manage it.”

Allison crossed her arms under her breasts and nodded slightly, chewing on her bottom lip a second before catching herself. “It’s a good point, but we’re pretty sure we know exactly where this monster is going.”

Monster.

His expression didn’t change, but he felt the distaste at the term to his bones. Allison had started to do that since they were sixteen and seventeen years old, when her mother had died in the line of fire (the fire being fangs and the line being the Hunt) and Allison had taken over as the new Matriarch. He knew it for what it was (though not until after several heated arguments); her defense mechanism. Her way of being strong through grief and too much responsibility on unsure shoulders. Turn them into monsters, to abstract beasts, and it was easier. Black versus white was always easier than fielding shades of grey (thanks, E.L. James, for ruining a perfectly good metaphor).

Allison’s elegant hand reached down and tapped at the table, metal clicking under her nails.

Just a few miles shy of the town Stiles never wanted to step foot in ever again.

“Beacon Hills,” Stiles croaked out loud, voice as hoarse and gruff as Chris’.

Both Chris and Allison looked over at him, faces and gazes discreetly guarded. He and Chris were ever at odds, and he and Allison had suffered fission after fission, but they were _family_ , bound by blood spilled together and lives saved. They knew exactly how he would’ve responded to any emotion directed his way over this.

He would’ve lashed out first, poisonously and viciously, and refused to apologize later.

.

He was eight when simple flightiness became lapses in memory.

He was ten when she turned to him, smiling and meek, voice still hoarse from screaming in fear moments ago: _Who are you, kochanie? Where’s your mother?_

When she died holding his hand.

By eleven, living had pulled the breath from his chest and left him gasping, weak, and blind on the floor. His father was broken, sucking down the bottom of a bottle while Stiles tried to breathe in the bathtub.

By twelve, his father had wrapped himself around a tree. Stiles hadn’t wanted to know if a bottle had been found with him.

He had left willingly and gratefully when Argent, a once old friend of his father’s and Stiles’ newly appointed guardian (‘ _never expected this happen. Sorry, kid, but I’m all you’ve got now’_ ), had rolled into town and rolled back out within a week of his father being buried in the ground next to what was left of his mother.

.

“How can you be sure this guy is heading there?” Stiles demanded. Allison and Chris exchanged looks and Chris sighed before setting down a tattered and frayed folder. _Goal achieved_ , Stiles thought without mirth.

He placed his fingers to the cardstock and slid the folder across the map’s surface. He flipped it open and immediately frowned. It looked like an old police case. A photocopy of one, at least. About a family and a fire- the words _arson_ and _Kate_ written in red along the bottom- that took place a year after his mother-

Stiles looked up at the Argents, still frowning. Allison reached over to flip a few pages to a newer one, a photo (a stalker photo, like, from the bushes around the corner kinda deal, good _God_ , Hunters could be so creepy) of a man’s broad back in a leather jacket paper-clipped to the top.

“Great, you have a picture of Danny Zuko’s body-double. And?” Stiles prompted with an eyeroll.

“He’s a _Hale_. The last of them. Their hometown was Beacon Hills almost a decade ago,” Allison explained. “There were a string of deaths there, and some strange activity that looks like new wolves, just half a year ago. It was somehow kept contained, but if that’s a Hale, and he’s got a new pack, we need to make sure he’s neutralized. If he was behind those deaths, he and any pack he has now need to be _put down_.”

Stiles’ nose scrunched pensively at the almost personal feel to this. He glanced back to the file and noticed another page. This one had the picture of the side profile of a young woman, long sheet of brown hair covering most of her face. The location was written in as Argentina, Unknown, but no name. But the Calaveras had sent it with _Hale?_ scratched onto a corner of the paper. _Looks like two ‘last of them’,_ Stiles thought dryly. He lifted the useless photo of the Danny Zuko-esque shoulders to check the name without much hope of there being one, like the girl’s file.

And froze.

A dime a dozen. Simple. A couple hundred thousand out there that could fit. But…

The idea of Chris or Allison putting a bullet or arrow through his head had bile coating the back of Stiles’ throat. When he looked up, Allison and Chris looked resigned, obviously knowing what was coming.

“I’ve got this.”

“Going alone isn-” Chris tried without much force. Which was smart, because Stiles was cutting in acidly,

“And if his name were Victoria?”

Allison and Chris stiffened, body language closing off. _Good_ , he thought vindictively.

“You can have him. But I expect constant updates on the situation and if I don’t, I’ll be on your ass before you can turn your head,” Chris warned with narrowed, icy blue eyes.

“Ah, Christopher, that’s real sweet, but you know daddy kink ain’t my style,” Stiles smirked lightly. “You aren’t the Matriarch, either. Don’t have the tits for it.”

Chris huffed in disgust and yanked his map into a crumpled roll before stomping away. He was muttering under his breath, but Stiles didn’t need to hear it to know the context (or content, which would involve plenty of swears).

“I really wish you wouldn’t rile him like that,” Allison sighed. _Bonus goal achieved_ , Stiles thought wryly. “ _As_ the Matriarch, I agree with him.”

Stiles flapped a hand negligently. “I’ve been solo on Hunts before.”

“It was _one_ Hunt.”

“Semantics.” As he moved away from the table, features schooled into his cockiest, shit-eatingest grin to distract from his shaking hands, Allison extended her hand. The movement was lightning fast, a cobra strike and his elbow the unwitting prey. He’d never be quite as fast as Allison. He was dangerous in other ways, though, and could be just as cold-blooded. Her pretty face was solemn when his brows raised over at her in question.

“Stiles, don’t… don’t play with fire,” Allison whispered, anxious dark eyes sliding towards her father’s retreating back. “I know how it started, but you _can’t_ let it go farther.”

“C’mon, Ally, every Hunter uses a bit. Hell, any Harry or Sally has enough _spark_ to lay down an ash line.” Stiles retorted with an eyeroll so hard it hurt.

“Enough spark to lay a line, not enough to _create_ more ash from _nothing_ ,” Ally hissed in frustration at his levity.

Stiles’ eyebrows jumped up again. “It’s never from _nothing_. Don’t you remember Hermione’s Laws of Transfiguration? Shame on you.”

“ _This isn’t fucking Harry Potter_ ,” the Matriarch growled.

Stiles couldn’t help the smug, sly grin uncurling across his lips. A few years back the exact situation Allison had exampled had occurred during a Hunt and started Stiles on his slippery slope of research and experimentation- which Allison had been his partner in crime for. Stiles didn’t have a _spark_ , no, he had a furnace, an _inferno_ , burning inside him. There was good chance that if Claudia and John Stilinski had never died, the Spark in Stiles never would’ve woken, instead been left like coals smoldering under the heavy ash of a mundane life. But since finding it, Stiles had become addicted to testing limits only to break them. Allison knew him too well not to notice the addiction. Her giddy shock and awe sometimes still showed through the cracks of her controlled veneer, but the sober reality that was the title of Matriarch had her torn between loyalties: to Stiles and to the Argent way.

Slowly, Stiles reached out and laid his bigger, bonier hand over her deceptively smaller one.

“Don’t worry, Ally. I’m no chosen one.”

Allison’s features froze, pained, and he used that moment to shake her off. In the corner of the living room he passed on the way up to his room, the Christmas tree twinkled innocuously. He and Allison had decorated it, laughing and giggling from mulled wine and Chipmunk carols blasting on Stiles’ Spotify. The tacky Walmart-bought plastic star was crooked, making him snort quietly.

He turned away to the stairs before the glow of cheap white lights could remind him of the menorah his mother used to light with him.

.

The hardest part of getting to Beacon Hills was just driving past that town limit sign.

He hadn’t looked any direction but straight ahead, honing on his target relentlessly: the trailhead of the Preserve. For his eighteenth birthday, Chris had disappeared for some weeks, only to turn up with a beat-up old blue Jeep. The previous registration had been in his mother’s name and it’d been sitting in storage the whole time. He could’ve given it up and gotten a shiny new SUV, but Stiles didn’t have anything else of his parents’; and he could finally stand to keep something without wanting to destroy it. Roscoe had easily offroaded to the decrepit Hale House, but hiding its powder-blue paint in the middle of a forest was a bit of a challenge (he may have pointed his finger in a very Sabrina the Teenage-Witch fashion).

Now, however, his skin pebbled with goosebumps at the feel of mountain ash encircling the derelict mansion except for where his quarry would enter. He pulled from his pocket a plastic Ziploc of powder, the color of it somewhere between grey and purple. With deft motions, Stiles cut a corner off and poured some of the powder into the natural bowl of his palm, then one-handedly rolled it up and shoved it in his pocket. He frowned at the powder in his hand and with his second hand painstakingly drew a symbol through it. He normally wasn’t so… “Craft-y” about using his Spark, but he’d created this spell himself and was inordinately proud of it. Not that he knew if it would work or not.

Licking his dry lips, Stiles walked to the doorway. The Hunter closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and lifted his hand. A moment later, he _blew_ ; the powder in his hand floating into the dark forest in an unerring straight, if wobbly, line until it dispersed and disappeared among the trees. Then, Stiles stepped back into the gloomy recess of the Hale House and sat down. All that was left was to wait. His head falling to the charred wall behind him made a loud thunk barely concealed by his groan. Already restless, he fiddled with the strings of the leather cuff over his wrist, thumb tracing over the unseen letters that were branded just as indelibly into his mind as they were on his skin.

What felt like hours later, Stiles’ eyes flew open. The sound of icy wind in the trees and the eerie creaking of the house around him were the first things he registered. But under it was the low, rumbling growl of a wild animal. An _angry_ animal. The paws were silent, but Stiles felt when the animal, no, the _werewolf_ stepped over the gap in the line- a shivering awareness up and down his body.

_Just a goose walking over your grave, kochanie_.

He was already getting to his feet at the growls coming closer. His hand at his side clenched into a fist and the line snapped into completion across the threshold. There was barely enough time for the triumphant grin to spread over his face before a dark, swift-moving blur raced across the gutted out remains of the living room, howling in rage.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” Stiles yelped, flailing backwards and pushing _out_ with both hands. The wolf flipped ass over kettle through a wall, but barely gave Stiles enough time to pull free his gun- shaking from the pure _force_ he’d managed to use like fucking Sue Storm- before it was on its legs once more. It shook itself briskly, debris and soot flying from pitch black fur, and turned glowing crimson eyes in Stiles’ direction. All its teeth bared a gleaming white. “Well, looks like not just the lady Hales go full wolfy. My amortentia worked like a charm,” Stiles punned with a cocky grin.

The Hale wolf snapped its jaws at Stiles and inched forward, intelligently shining eyes on the gun and wet nose twitching.

“Yup, that’s definitely wolfsbane in here,” Stiles agreed genially, one hand coming up to brace under the butt of the grip, feet sliding into a more wide-legged stance. Stiles could _see_ the hackles rising along the wolf’s back as he talked. “Look, dude, your super power is super and all, but if you have any last words, you might as well turn back now. Or don’t. It’ll make _my_ life easier burying a dead dog rather than a dead dude.”

Before he could even finish, the were’ was contorting in front of him. Limbs stretching and contracting, shoulders hunching and paws growing into hands and feet, fur sinking into pale skin. Until all that was left of the wild animal was a man kneeling on the dirty floor, buck naked and sweaty back heaving. If it wasn’t for the utter lack of shivering in the chilly December night air, the wolf would’ve looked like any other normal man. If of the hairy variety.

“Was the change just to make my life harder, or were you actually gonna say something?” Stiles quipped after the silence dragged on too long. The Hale jerked his head up, eyes still scarlet and teeth bared so much like a wolf’s. His stubble was _on point_ though, his eyebrows thick and dark over a face made for modelling. Who knew the lens flare on that photo was hiding such a _pretty_ looking man?

“I won’t die here- _not_ _here_ ,” the Hale bit out harshly. Though… despite the fierce anger coloring his tone, his voice was a lot softer than Stiles was expecting. It shouldn’t match the beard or eyebrows or muscles, but… _it did_. His words sank in a minute later and it took Stiles actual _effort_ not to wince.

He shook his head lightly, but his arms and the gun didn’t waver. “Nice sentiment, dude, but you’re trapped here.”

“Derek. Not dude.”

Stiles couldn’t help the wince then. Because he _knew_ , oh God, did he _know_ this man’s name.

“Whatever, dude. We’re not exact made for first name basis here.”

Derek Hale scowled fiercely at Stiles, then slowly cocked his head to the side. After a few beats, the crimson of the Alpha’s eyes faded, revealing eyes startling light in such a darkly frowning face. “You’re not going to shoot me.”

Stiles ‘tch’ed and gestured with the gun. “Gun, dude. I’m definitely gonna shoot you.”

“If you were going to shoot me, you would’ve already. You look and talk like a Hunter, even smell like one, but… you’re _not_ going to shoot me.”

“Keep yakking, buddy, and you’re gonna get a new hole- Whoa, hey, what are you doing?” Stiles snapped, stepping a few paces back as Derek Hale got to his feet and cracked his neck. His eyes fixed on the familiar scrawl of letters on Derek’s collarbone, exactly where _Claudia_ had been on Stiles’ father. The breath knocked out of his body.

“Why are you here? Or was talking me to death the real plan?” Derek snorted, crossing his arms over his chest and completely ignoring just how naked he was.

Stiles slowly pointed the gun to the ground and met Derek’s eyes. “ _Przemysław_.”

Derek was across the room, a clawed hand wrapped around Stiles’ throat, the other on Stiles’ wrist holding the gun, and eyes glowing red once more as fangs descended. “ _Don’t you dare say that name_.”

“Y-You m-moron,” Stiles choked out, feet kicking over the floor by a few inches. He was actually _taller_ than this asshole. Stupid fucking super-powered werewolves. “That’s _m-my_ name.”

Stiles collapsed to the ground in a heap, choking and coughing and rubbing his throat, while Derek stared at him from an arm’s length away. Stiles holstered the gun and, using his teeth when his fingers proved too unsteady, yanked at the leather strings holding the cuff on his wrist. It fell away to expose _Derek_ written in a bold, too-heavy hand over Stiles’ pulsepoint. “You’re right. I… I’m _not_ gonna shoot you,” Stiles admitted hoarsely, eyes red and watery as he glared up at Derek.

“Shit,” Derek snarled a second later. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of his old family home.

Stiles leaned against the wall behind himself and had to hold back what were clearly hysterical giggles. Because his soulmate was a fucking _werewolf_ and his ass bounced when he walked. _Priorities, really,_ Stiles scolded himself internally, eyes slipping shut.

.

When Derek came back, he was in clothes- jeans and a maroon sweater with… with _thumbholes?_ Super-buff Alphas should not wear sweaters with _thumbholes_ that made them look all too cuddle-able. It was playing havoc on Stiles’ already wracked nerves. Derek sat across the living room with a low huff and tugged angrily at his bootlaces.

“Did your prince charming throw those clothes up through a window for you, Rapunzel?” Stiles drawled while absently fiddling with his discarded wrist cuff. Derek glanced up at him, at the cuff, and scowled ever harder.

“Did Harry Potter help you with your lure to get me here, mudblood?”

Stiles gasped in outraged shock- while on the inside he crowed giddily. “You’re lucky I haven’t figured out that slug curse yet, bro! That’s a disgusting thing to say,” he laughed. “A Potterhead wolfman. How great.”

“We aren’t _bros_ , Hunter. I don’t care what your name is.”

Stiles stared at him, eyebrows high. “But you trust me.”

Derek snorted inelegantly. It seemed to be his favorite reaction to Stiles’… everything. So far. “You weren’t lying. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I trust you… at all.”

“Man, I’m heartbroken. We had a whole Rowling-induced bonding moment and everything,” Stiles complained. “Why don’t you just kill me and find out if my name scars?”

A long, heavy silence fell in the Hale House. This place was already a tomb, the shades of tragic death still clinging to its foundations and leftover rafters. Maybe that’s why Derek had been so adamant against dying in this place, where his soul could be trapped by echoes of people he’d once loved. Stiles didn’t exactly like the idea himself.

“It’s Christmas Eve.”

“I’m mostly Jewish.”

“Are you arguing _for_ killing you?” For the first time, the wolf actually sounded amused. Stiles looked over at him and winked.

“Just playing devil’s advocate.”

Another snort was his reward. 

“So, a stalemate. A hunter and a werewolf trapped in a haunted house on Christmas Eve,” Stiles pronounced.

“Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke,” Derek muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.

“Or a _great_ porn.”

Derek glared at Stiles’ cheeky grin. “Just break the damn circle and get out of my town,” he growled angrily. “If you’re not gonna kill me now, you’re never going to, so just leave.”

“Dude, you think I tracked you here by my lonesome? I come from a Clan with a bunch of connections. My Matriarch knows I’m here and they’re convinced you had something to do with the deaths six months ago. They’ll come for you if I leave, that’s why- I had… I had to know…and I couldn’t let someone else come in my place,” Stiles sighed out the last of the explanation, thumb brushing over his wrist. Derek looked away with his face drawn and pale.

“Argent.”

Stiles jerked up at the whisper. “What?”

“You’re an Argent.”

Whiskey brown eyes narrowed on Derek’s profile. “You knew Kate Argent, didn’t you?” Derek flinched, sharp intake of breath whistling through gritted teeth. “I know she had something to do with…” he waved his hand around them, at the charred bones of what had been Derek’s home eight years ago, “but that’s it. You know that my Clan knows your name and home, and that we have a Matriarch, and you immediately thought _Argent_. Either we’re werewolf baby boogey stories, which I wouldn’t be surprised, Gerard was a grade-A crazy asshole when he was alive, or you _know_ the Argents.”

“You can stop talking any minute now,” Derek seethed, still not looking at him. Stiles tapped a rhythm out on his kneecaps, turning the information over.

“The Argents murdered your family back then, didn’t they? That’s why they were so desperate to hunt you down now,” Stiles mused.

“ _Shut up_!” Derek roared, eyes glowing crimson again. Stiles’ mouth dropped open at the beta shift that twisted up Derek’s features. This part of the wolf looked more like a monster than the full Alpha shift did, honestly. “What’s a _Hunter_ doing throwing around words like _murder_? It’s _hunting_ , exterminating a _threat_ , so don’t you dare try to act otherwise with me, Argent!”

“Stilinski.”

Derek snarled at him, words coming out thick and rough from behind fangs too large for his still too human mouth, “What?”

“I’m not an Argent. I’m Stiles Stilinski. They took me in when my parents died.”

Derek shook his head, but his eyes were no longer bloody red when he looked over at Stiles again. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still a Hunter. You’ve killed ‘wolves, _monsters_ like me.”

“Yeah, I have,” Stiles nodded and inspected his fingernails. “I’ve also fought against a swarm of evil pixies, a hag who pretended to be an innocent little granny to make soup out of runaway kids, and a kelpie that was, hey, luring kids into a pond to snack on them. There’s something about sweet little kids that monsters just love to munch on,” Stiles listed tonelessly. He lifted his eyes to Derek’s shocked and disgusted expression. “And yeah, I’ve killed a werewolf or five, and I’ve hunted down monsters. But then so have you, Mr. Big Bad _Alpha_.”

Derek’s expression shuttered closed. “I don’t- I didn’t kill those people.”

“But you killed an Alpha.”

“An Alpha killing people.”

Stiles and Derek’s gazes locked. Then, slowly, Stiles tilted his head forehead in acquiescence. He didn’t have to say out loud that he believed the werewolf. Maybe he was an idiot for believing it so quickly, maybe it was just loopy soulmate bias, but Stiles only saw a lonely, angry man. He didn’t see a murderer.

Silence fell again and Stiles sighed hopelessly. Derek was right about another thing; Stiles needed to make a decision. Preferably before he froze his balls off. Or missed the excellent Christmas deals on Amazon.

.

He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he’d shivered so hard he shivered himself _awake_. Stiles woke up with teeth chattering and body curled into a ball in a filthy corner of the living room. The wind must’ve shifted and it blew through every gaping hole and crack and right at him. Something soft and feathery brushed his cheeks and he blinked open sluggish eyes to see fat, white flakes of snow fluttering through the gloom.

“This is fucking fantastic,” Stiles muttered, stretching his aching and clenched muscles and shuddering in the cold.

He jumped, startled, as Derek slid into place beside him. From wherever he’d found his clothes, he’d found a ratty old blanket that even to Stiles’ human nose, smelled like mildew and soot. And death. But it was warm when Derek wrapped it around them both and curled an arm around Stiles’ shoulders.

“I came here to kill you, and you’re only here because of my stupid knock-off lovespell powder and my mountain ash. I don’t… I don’t know what I’m doing and you’re _cuddling_ me, you massive moron,” Stiles blurted, ending on a sneeze that rocked them both.

 “If you die of hypothermia that line still won’t break,” Derek pointed out, unperturbed.

Stiles barked out a laugh and lay his head on Derek’s shoulder, glorying in werewolf body heat. He shuffled a bit and checked his watch, only to laugh again. He looked up to see Derek gazing down at him, eyebrows high. “Merry Christmas,” he announced past chattering teeth, tapping at his lit up watch and the time: _12:03_.

“Happy Birthday.”

Stiles blinked. “No. Merry Christmas…?”

“No, it’s… it’s my birthday, too.” Stiles stared. Derek shrugged nonchalantly.

“I would say this must be the worst birthday party ever, but don’t most Christmas babies have shitty birthdays?”

“I didn’t,” Derek replied softly. For a moment, Stiles breath caught because Derek was _smiling_. Despite _everything_ , Derek fucking Hale was smiling in his shitty burnt out family home, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like death and fire, and cuddling with a Hunter from the Clan responsible for it all. “We had a big family get together on Christmas Eve with a huge dinner. On Christmas Day, the morning was for Christmas, the evening was for me. I got double the presents that everyone else got, and they always had Christmas or birthday wrapping paper. We’d have Christmas pie and leftovers for lunch, but birthday cake and ice cream for dinner, so no one ever complained. At least, the kids didn’t,” Derek remembered fondly. “My mom said just because it was Christmas didn’t mean I couldn’t get _my_ day, too.”

“Sounds like a good mom,” Stiles choked out softly. Derek nodded.

“Good Alpha, too.”

Stiles cleared his throat and placed a shaking hand on Derek’s knee to squeeze gently. “Happy Birthday, then.”

“Merry Christmas,” Derek whispered, his hands carefully kept to himself. Stiles pulled his own away, fighting disappointment. He was still a Hunter and Derek was still a werewolf.

Obviously.

They stayed awake the whole night, silent but pressed close. The beat of Stiles’ heart thudded in time with Derek’s, a rhythm that lulled Stiles into a drowsy peace. A peace like he hadn’t known since his mother’s death so many years before. His muscles ached from being curled into one position for so long, and half his body still felt too cold, and _god_ his ass was _killing him_ from sitting so long on the freezing floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Couldn’t bring himself to want to. Because he’d have to break that line when he did. And he knew exactly what he had to do after that.

.

Birds twittered outside, weak sunlight breaking through the snow clouds and trees to light up patches of the Hale House. It still took until an hour or longer for the two men huddled under the tattered blanket to move. It was Stiles’ rumbling stomach that forced it, actually. They got to their feet stiffly, neither’s eyes meeting and motions wooden. Derek rolled up the blanket and held it limply in his arms, gaze trained to what had once been a pretty floral-patterned pink comforter.

“Run.”

Derek glanced up into Stiles’ serious expression. “What.”

“You have to run. They’ll come here, but I can cover your tracks long enough to get them off your admittedly awesome ass.” Derek’s mouth twitched at that. “I can’t… I can’t come with you, but I can give you an escape. You don’t trust me yet, but you can tell I’m not lying. I _won’t_ let them get you,” Stiles vowed fiercely. Something soft and awed crossed Derek’s face, but he shook it away and scowled.

“I can’t.”

“What the fuck does that mean!? You’re about to have Hunters all over your ass, blaming you for deaths you didn’t commit, and accusing you of building up a pack outta defenseless kids-” Derek flinched outright and Stiles ground to a halt. “Oh, you fucking _idiot_ , you _did_ Bite defenseless kids, fucking _shit_ , Derek.” He dragged a hand through his hair roughly, minds whirring.

“I didn’t plan on becoming an Alpha, _Przemysław_ ,” Derek snapped defensively. Stiles froze and stared at him, mouth gaping wide.

“How the fuck-”

“A lot of practice,” Derek answered shortly, ears burning red. Stiles snickered, then broke off and rubbed his face.

“Fine, shit, okay. First, never call me that again. It’s _Stiles_. And second, you _still_ gotta go. You’re gonna have to take your pack of teenage misfits with you.”

“ _Where_? Not to mention, that’s a _felony_. I could be arrested for kidnapping, _Stiles_ ,” Derek sneered, rolling his eyes hard.

“Don’t blame me for your poor decision making skills! You’re an adult, damn it!”

They glared at each other from across the room, body language as tense as their first meeting. Just hours ago. Stiles cracked first with another bout of snickers. “This is when the cheesy porn music would start playing.”

Derek frowned incredulously and _actually facepalmed_. “Damn it, Stiles, this isn’t the time. Just… stay, with me, here. We can do this if you just stay with us,” Derek finally said- though it sounded like pleading. Stiles wobbled. “I can tell what you can do, I could _smell_ it in that spell you made, that _lure_ you used. They won’t let you stay in the Clan if you keep using that power, you’ll be just as hunted as me.”

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and glanced away. His jaw set stubbornly, but his skin was paler than usual, blood draining from his face at the truth in those words.

“Come home with me.”

Those words snapped Stiles out of it, knocking him onto his heels and back a few steps.

“ _No_. This is _not_ my home. It’ll never be home for me. I don’t know how you can stand to live in this shitty little town where on every corner are ghosts of people you _loved_ ,” Stiles spat, eyes flashing, as Derek reeled back, “I know I _can’t_ do that. I know what I have to do to survive, because you’re right and All- my Matriarch warned as much before I left. But sticking around here being _haunted and hunted_ isn’t how I choose to _live_. Take it or leave it, but you should _run_ from this hellhole.”

A paper and a photo floated in Stiles’ mind.

“Head to South America, Argentina. There was… there’s maybe another Hale down there. A girl.”

Derek’s hands clenched into fists. “And you?”

The Hunter… well, ex-Hunter now, brushed a hand through his hair again with a sigh that morphed into a lopsided, self-deprecating grin. “Did I ever tell you how I aced high school Spanish?

A moment of incomprehension before Derek rubbed his forehead with his fingers and laughed incredulously. “What?”

“Go to South America, Derek. I can buy you maybe six months to figure it out,” he flapped a hand.

Derek strode towards him, crowding into Stiles’ space, hand cupping Stiles’ jaw and eyes flashing red. “You’ll follow?” His free hand gripped Stiles’ wrist, thumb pressing over the _r_ of his own handwriting.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered hoarsely. “I’ll follow. If you _run_.”

“I’ll see you in Argentina.”

“Isn’t that a song?” Stiles questioned with eyebrows rising.

“Shut up, Stiles.” A pause. “It’s “Don’t Cry for me Argentina”.”

Stiles grinned under Derek’s mouth. “You’re a total nerd,” he whispered delightedly when the soft, lingering kiss ended. It got him another shut-up-Stiles-kiss, so _win_.

.

It was _hot_. _Fucking_ hot. His t-shirt was sticking to his back, and his backpack to hung from one shoulder just to avoid the gross sticky feeling of damp cotton. He stopped outside some random cantina to pull his phone out of his pocket.

On the screen was his last text message: _I’ll miss you._

With a sad smile, he tore the phone apart and tossed the pieces into a bin. _Thanks, Ally_.

“ _Przemysław_!”

Stiles grimaced and smiled at once, nose scrunching up and eyes squinting as he turned towards the voice. A distinctly fuzzier and tanner Derek Hale with shades that should’ve been douchey but just looked mouth-dryingly hot stood across the street. He waited where he was for Derek to make his way across. Instead of the expected kiss, Stiles got too-tight arms around his waist and Derek’s face buried against his throat. His beard prickled on sensitive skin, and _God,_ Derek was too hot- temperature-wise- to cuddle in the middle of Argentina’s summer, but Stiles gripped the back of Derek’s shirt and held on anyway.

“Merry Christmas,” Derek whispered.

“ _Feliz cumpleaños_. I’ve been practicing,” Stiles joked, hands stroking over Derek’s hair.

Derek groaned quietly, but pulled away, eyes darting over Stiles’ face. “You said you’d follow.”

“ _I did._ ”

“A _year_ later.”

“But I followed. Stop whining, you big baby. Now take me to your wolfy cave or wherever you keep the puppies.”

“It’s not a cave and they’re not puppies.”

But he took Stiles’ bag and led him towards a parked truck with a hand on the small of Stiles’ back.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: There's some not quite explicit flashbacks to the Stilinskis' deaths. Stiles remembers the moment his mother died. The Sheriff has some extreme problems with alcohol and it's implied that his car accident was the result of DUI. 
> 
> Mentions of panic attacks and poor parenting due to grief.


End file.
